Between the Pages
by gingerpunches
Summary: The Reaper War was leaving a lot of people in the dust. But Commander Shepard was as selfless as they came, and Steve Cortez wants to make it just a little easier on his Commander. - I felt like Steve Cortez wasn't as explored as other romances, so I decided to fill in some of the blanks as he and Shepard grow closer throughout the game. Timeline is all over ME3.
1. Not the Last

Hearing about Shepard was one thing. Seeing him work was a completely different experience.

They'd all heard the stories while working on the _Normandy _retrofits – Shepard was this bloodthirsty, bullheaded super killer the Alliance unleashed when they couldn't sort out their own problems. He killed thousands of batarians during the Skyllian Blitz single-handedly, annihilated scores of Collectors with his rogue team of Cerberus operatives, and was so determined to blast his way through danger it was said he could punch his way through a Reaper and _live_.

Well, they were partially right. Commander Shepard did battle through ten thousand batarians (almost) by himself, he did wipe out Collectors and Reapers wherever he went, and he did survive an expedition through a Reaper. What they weren't right about was his snarling, murderous attitude. Steve supposed a margin of error was expected.

Especially when he actually met the Commander.

The Commander didn't look like a murderer. He was tall, with broad shoulders and a small waist. His blond hair was spiked up off the top of his head in a faux hawk – something Steve didn't expect in a life-long military man. When he spoke to Steve, his voice was low and quiet, and his eyes were so cold and so blue Steve thought, for a brief moment, they must have been carved from river ice.

When he held out his hand to shake Steve's – "Relax, Lieutenant. It's nice to meet you." – Steve couldn't help but stare at the sharp, staggered scars that crawled up his forearm, clear up until they disappeared under the rolled-up sleeve of his fatigues. He also had three long scars across his face: one cutting down his left eyebrow, through his eye and lips to his chin, another stretching across the arched bridge of his nose to his left ear, and a smaller, less noticeable one on his right cheek that was possibly made by the same weapon as the one across his nose. Just seeing the marks set Steve on edge. A strange feeling shot through him as he talked to Shepard, his eyes strangely drawn to the pale marks on his light skin, as if it wasn't possible for one man to have so many scars visible, let alone the stories they must carry.

Commander Shepard was also very quiet. He didn't speak often, even when he was with a group of people who were talking very animatedly. He attended poker games between the crew several times, which Steve found odd, since the Commander neither played, drank, nor talked much to the crew. He seemed to know the people who played, though – James, Garrus, Joker, EDI – even Steve, although their friendship (if Steve could call it that) was relatively new. The Commander instead chose to hover nearby, his calm, hooded gaze watching, his hands behind his back at parade rest if he wasn't smoking.

Steve also noticed odd habits the Commander had. Habits that, if the Commander had been anyone else, it might have been harder to understand why he had them. Commander Shepard didn't eat in front of others, didn't touch members of his crew outside small pats on the shoulders or firm handshakes. He turned pointedly away from the observation windows in the port and starboard rec. rooms. He cleaned and double-checked his own gear, even after Steve had triple-cleaned and triple-checked them himself.

They were odd, little things. Steve knew the stories – they all did. The Commander was a war hero. He battled Collectors and Reapers alike, without flinching, unyielding in the face of certain annihilation. Even when he died, he rebounded back so quickly the Collectors, who'd ravaged the galaxy of human colonies for two years while the Commander was dead, were eradicated within a couple short months after his awakening. It was like nothing could stop him. An insignificant observation window seemed an odd thing to turn away from.

But then Steve found out why.

"Commander."

The Commander whipped around, his body moving so quickly Steve thought he might rip the gun he was working on right off its secured harness sitting on the worktop. The shuttle bay was dark except for the bay lights shining above Steve's, Shepard's, and James' workplaces. A short, battered lamp shone dimly on Shepard's worktop across from his armor locker, the yellow light reflecting in his blue eyes and off the sharp lines of his cheekbones. His shoulders, once a tight line when Steve had walked in, were now relaxed. He dropped the sauntering iron he had in his hand and ran a hand through his wispy hair.

"Sorry, Steve," he said. He sounded tired. "I didn't hear the elevator."

Steve shook his head. He approached the Commander slowly and stood next to his worktop, peering over the various clips and parts arranged on its surface. They were all sorted by size and make, neatly lined up on the Commander's left side.

"It's alright. It's late – I didn't think anyone would be down here. Are you working on anything particular?"

The Commander shrugged a shoulder and stepped back from his table. He crossed his arms, cocked a hip, and put his weight back on his left leg, his right coming out in front to balance him. The crew – Steve included – had started to call it the Commander's "I'm listening" pose. It was as relaxed they ever got to see him. Steve stayed where he was, hands behind his back, his body open and equally relaxed. He found, during the odd times he and the Commander talked, the Commander responded well to being approached with neutral body language and speech.

"Well I – uh. After the Cerberus raid on the Citadel, I was – well, I was – uhm." The Commander cleared his throat. "I'm not used to having free time. We have some shore leave tomorrow, so I figured I'd get to work on a schematic I was thinking about, but I've had so much on my mind that I just couldn't get it done before now. And call me Shepard, please. 'Commander' is just, uh, reserved for those that aren't close."

Steve nodded, trying to keep the smile off his face. Their odd friendship had been budding into something, and whatever it was, it scared and thrilled Steve. Shepard was quiet and awkward, all long limbs and scarred skin. The couple talks they'd had revealed Shepard sometimes didn't know what he was doing, but kept going, because he knew there was no other way. It was the sort of helplessness Steve had experienced after Robert had died. And in his weird, socially inept way, Shepard had encouraged him to move past it. Steve wished he could do the same, but knew that as far as relationships went with commanding officers, all he could do was support Shepard as his friend and crew mate. Nothing more.

Even as Shepard bit his lip and relaxed his posture. Even as Steve's eyes followed the strong, fluid curve of his powerful shoulders and spine, the weight that must be pushing down on them so suffocating all Steve wanted to do was push the entire galaxy away and tell him _it's all right_.

"Steve? You're staring."

Steve snapped his gaze back up to Shepard's, his heart dropping at the knowing look starting to crease Shepard's brow. He swallowed thickly and started to take a couple steps back.

"I'm sorry, I was thinking. I didn't mean to cause discomfort, it – "

"It's alright."

Shepard's quiet answer drew Steve's escape to an abrupt halt. He stood where he was, his hands flexing anxiously as Shepard started to grin. It was a small, almost amused smile, his teeth peeking through his lips. Steve had seen Shepard smile a handful of times. And each time, his chest constricted until he couldn't breathe.

"It's alright," Shepard said again, softly. He held his hand out to Steve, and it wasn't to shake his hand. His palm was up, and his long, scarred fingers were outstretched to Steve in an invitation Steve wasn't sure he was ready to accept.

What about Robert? He'd said his peace, laying Robert's last words to rest at the refugee memorial. He'd cried so many nights he couldn't keep track of them all, and sometimes, in the darkest hours, Steve held a gun in his hands and thought about ending it all and joining Robert. But then this man came – this broken, helpless man so determined to help others he sacrificed at his own expense. Steve never believed he would meet _The _Commander Shepard in person, nor learn about the man behind the legends. And yet here he was, not only learning about the true man, but falling in love with him, too.

Steve swallowed thickly and, without any further thought or hesitation, took Shepard's fingers. Immediately their palms came together and their fingers intertwined. Steve's heart raced in his chest, pounding so hard he thought it might burst through his ribs. When he looked up from their hands he saw the wide, happy smile on Shepard's face, mirroring the smile Steve could feel spreading on his own lips. It only felt natural to step forward and kiss Shepard, their lips coming together in a soft, long press of their mouths. Warmth flowed up through Steve, and he thought that for a moment, when he opened his eyes, Shepard's shoulders weren't weighted down with the galaxy.


	2. Cage

Most didn't know what could trigger Shepard.

Granted, Steve couldn't either, sometimes. Some things seemed so random, so far in left field that it couldn't possibly be something that could have been detrimental to Shepard's mental health. But he didn't question it, so when someone or himself set Shepard off, he tried to douse the situation the best way he knew how – quiet words and removal from the situation. Shepard, after all these years, still didn't know how to cope.

And it wasn't that he would violently act out when something triggered him. Usually it was little signs that alerted Steve: shaking hands, inability to stay still, complete shutdown of his brain showing on his face. His temperature dropped to noticeable temperatures, and EDI usually alerted Steve subtly that Shepard was on the cusp of an anxiety attack. So he did what he knew should happen, and they didn't talk about it after.

But it was getting out of hand. Steve didn't know what to do anymore. Shepard was terminally depressed, he knew that, but he was to the point that talking to him was like talking to a brick wall. Shepard had degenerated into a lump in their bed, never getting up from beneath the covers unless he had to use the restroom, but even then Steve still had to check on him.

It wasn't so much aggravating as it was worrying. Steve wanted to be angry, like Shepard had when Steve had his head so far up his ass he couldn't see that he wasn't the only one losing loved ones. But he couldn't be angry. Not when Shepard needed him.

He stepped into their room, leaving the lights off to allow Shepard at least this one layer of protection. He slowly wormed his way under the comforter until he felt one strong thigh with his fingers, then wiggled completely under and wrapped himself around Shepard. Shepard didn't respond much beyond allowing Steve's arms to hook around his narrow waist.

Steve let the silence continue for a bit. Shepard reeked of sweat and male odor, but Steve didn't hold his breath or move away. He kissed Shepard's shoulder instead and stuck his feet out of the comforter.

"What's wrong, Shepard?"

The silence continued. That was alright – Steve let it. The question hung in the air still, and he could feel Shepard thinking about it, a million answers flitting through his brain, weighing each option like it could destroy the universe if it was the wrong one.

Eventually an answer came. "You know those people that recognize me from time to time in the mall? When I'm shopping for groceries or new clothes or more food for Urz?"

Steve grunted his assent. Shepard turned in his arms to face him, and his piercing, pale blue eyes pinned him to the mattress. Even in the dark, Steve could see the bruises under his eyes.

"Some of them just want an autograph, or a picture. They don't say much to me other than "thank you", or something along those lines. But this time…"

Shepard shifted, and his eyes looked sad. Steve didn't know what to do.

"She told me she was an Alliance Intel officer. I asked her what she wanted to know so I could see if I could tell her, because I knew some details might not be clear in my report about the Citadel, but she… She asked if I knew what I was."

Steve didn't speak. Shepard didn't move. Steve could feel the proverbial weight on Shepard's body, hovering over him, the ghosts of his death haunting him even now. Steve wanted to punch himself – of course this was what was wrong with Shepard. How could it be anything else?

"What do you mean, baby?" he asked anyway. He wanted Shepard to talk. He knew that if he got Shepard talking, the problem would work itself out. It always did.

Shepard looked at him again, and his eyes were hollow. It hurt. "You know what I mean. I've said it before – I know you listened to my suit comm when I was on missions. Sometimes I said things just so you would hear them, but this was something that blindsided me."

"You mean when you said you didn't think you were you?"

"Yeah."

The silence under the covers of their bed was deafening. The darkness in the room pressed down on them, smothering them with its weight, judging them even now. Steve couldn't count the amount of times they've laid here, the lights off just like they were now, the night life noise of the city below them ringing faintly like pleasant white noise. Sometimes they'd talk, sometimes not at all, and sometimes it would get so heated, Steve didn't know his skin from Shepard's.

He wanted to show that Shepard is himself, completely human and fully capable of making his own choices. He knew he couldn't fix Shepard. But he could make him feel better.

"Shepard, you're you to me." Steve brought them closer together with a hand on the small of Shepard's back. Shepard didn't resist. But his demeanor changed – there were only a few times Steve had seen him truly angry, but he could recognize it from light years away. Now was no different.

"I don't know what you want me to say, Steve."

Steve sighed. In exasperation, he flung off the blankets and sat up. The lights snapped on with a click of his fingers. Shepard lay blinking up at him, naked and guarded, his face an angry storm. Steve wasn't put off in the slightest.

"I want you to say that you're who you are," Steve said. He kept his voice level – Shepard generally responded well with that. Speaking down to him made him angry, and trying to appeal to him in a positive way usually helped, but now he was in no mood to be coddled. Neutral it was.

"I love you, Shepard. I know what you're like, and I would know if you were some computer pretending to be you."

Shepard went to open his mouth, to speak, but Steve pressed forward.

"I'm not going to pretend that I know what you were like before you died – I was on the opposite end of the galaxy when you died. But there are others that know you from before, and they're positive this is you. I'm inclined to believe them." He took a deep breath, and before Shepard could get a word in – because if he did, he would fall into the pit of depression once again – he pushed on. "Besides, machine or not, I'll still love you, no matter what, or who, you are."

Silence fell between them again. The room was cold, but they'd been laying there for close to an hour, and the space around them was warm. Shepard's pale skin was a stark contrast to the dark fabric of their sheets, his strong, curving muscles sharp against the blackness. Flitters and solar cars were distant twinkles of light below them, the skyscrapers around them reflecting their light like massive, black mirrors. The sky was dotted with stars, and Steve was sure he could name a couple of them and the worlds that orbited around them.

Shepard finally sat up. He folded his legs between them, their knees touching, his hands coming between them to fold under Steve's. His hands were wide and battered. Steve enjoyed their feel on his skin, in moments like this and every other instance he'd felt them on his body.

Shepard cleared his throat. "I didn't mean to be like this."

Steve shrugged. He didn't meet Shepard's eyes when he looked up.

"I really didn't. I… always feel like a stranger in my body. I guess when others point it out, it's like they can see the cybernetics Cerberus put into me. The little parts that allow me to stay alive…" Shepard drew in a shaky sigh, then blew it out. They met eyes. "You can't see them, can you?"

Steve shook his head. He didn't know what else to say, now. All that hot air deflated out of him – all that was left was an extreme want to keep Shepard safe.

Shepard's answering breath was smooth. His smile was beautiful. "Okay."

It wasn't perfect. A year after the Reaper threat had been destroyed, and still they were feeling its effects on their daily lives. _The gift that keeps on giving_, Steve's mind supplied. _It's going to take time_.


End file.
